Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4. Виктор Мари Гюго

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СКАЧАТЬ walk. He did not know where he was. He knew nothing. He was ten years old. The child was in a desert, between depths where he saw the night and depths where he heard the waves.

      He stretched his little thin arms and yawned. Then suddenly with the agility of a squirrel, or perhaps of an acrobat he turned his back on the creek, and began to climb up the cliff. To climb is the function of a man; to clamber is that of an animal – he did both.

      The intensity of cold had, however, frozen the snow into dust very troublesome to the walker. His man’s jacket, which was too big for him, got in his way[12]. Now and then he came upon a little ice. Once he came on a vein of slate, which suddenly gave way under him.

      Crumbling slate is treacherous. For some seconds the child slid like a tile on a roof. He rolled to the extreme edge of the decline; a tuft of grass saved him. Finally he jumped on the level ground, or rather landed, for he rose from the precipice.

      Scarcely was he on the cliff when he began to shiver. The bitter north-wester[13] was blowing; he tightened his rough sailor’s jacket about his chest.

      The child gained the tableland, stopped, placed his feet firmly on the frozen ground, and looked about him. Behind him was the sea; in front the land; above, the sky – but a sky without stars; an opaque mist masked the zenith.

      Far away the waters stirred confusedly in the ominous clear-obscure of immensity. The boat was going quick away. It seemed to grow smaller every minute. Nothing appears so rapid as the flight of a vessel melting into the distance of ocean.

      A storm threatened in the air. Chaos was about to appear. Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The boat sank into the horizon. The little star which she carried into shadow paled. More and more the boat became amalgamated with the night, then disappeared.

      At least the child seemed to understand it: he ceased to look at the sea.

      ON THE LAND

      It was about seven o’clock in the evening. The wind was now diminishing. The child was on the land at the extreme south point of Portland.

      Portland is a peninsula; but the child did not know what a peninsula is, and was ignorant even of the name of Portland. He knew but one thing, which is, that one can walk until one drops down. They had brought him there and left him there. They and there – these two enigmas represented his doom. They were humankind. There was the universe. In the great twilight world, what was there for the child? Nothing. He walked towards this Nothing.

      He crossed the first plateau diagonally, then a second, then a third. The slope was sometimes steep, but always short. The high, bare plains of Portland resemble great flagstones. From time to time he stopped, and seemed to hold counsel with himself. The night was becoming very dark. He now only saw a few steps before him.

      All of a sudden[14] he stopped, listened for an instant, and with an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction turned quickly and directed his steps towards an eminence of moderate height. There was on the eminence a shape which in the mist looked like a tree. The child had just heard a noise in this direction, which was the noise neither of the wind nor of the sea, nor was it the cry of animals. He thought that some one was there, and soon he was at the foot of the hillock.

      In truth, someone was there. The child was before a corpse, dumb, wondering, and with eyes fixed.

      To the child it was an apparition. The child saw a spectre. Besides, he did not understand. The child took a step, then another; he ascended and approached. Bold, yet trembling, he went close up to survey the spectre.

      When he got close under the gibbet, he looked up and examined it. The spectre was tarred; here and there it shone. The child distinguished the face. It was coated over with pitch. The child saw the mouth, which was a hole; the nose, which was a hole; the eyes, which were holes. The body was wrapped in coarse canvas. The canvas was mouldy and torn. A knee protruded through it. Partly corpse, partly skeleton. The face was the colour of earth. The canvas, glued to the bones, showed in reliefs like the robe of a statue. The skull, cracked and fractured, gaped like a rotten fruit. The teeth were still human, for they retained a laugh. There were a few hairs of beard on the cheek.

      The child ran until he was breathless, at random, desperate, over the plain into the snow, into space. His flight warmed him. He needed it. When his breath failed him he stopped, but he dared not look back. He fancied that the birds pursued him, that the dead man had undone his chain and was perhaps hurrying behind him, and no doubt the gibbet itself was descending the hill, running after the dead man; he feared to see these things if he turned his head.

      When he had recovered his breath he resumed his flight. He no longer felt hunger nor cold – he felt fear. One instinct had given place to another. To escape was now his whole thought – to escape from what? From everything. On all sides life seemed to enclose him like a horrible wall. He was running. He ran on for an indefinite time.

      All at once he stopped. He was ashamed of running away. He drew himself up, stamped his foot, and, with head erect, looked round. There was no longer hill, nor gibbet, nor flights of crows. The child pursued his way: he now no longer ran but walked.

      The child had run quite a quarter of a league, and walked another quarter, when suddenly he felt the craving of hunger. A thought occurred to him forcibly – that he must eat. But what to eat, where to eat, how to eat?

      He felt his pockets mechanically, they were empty. Then he quickened his steps, without knowing whither he was going. He hastened towards a possible shelter. However, in that plain of snow there was nothing like a roof. There had never been a human habitation on the tableland. It was at the foot of the cliff.

      The child found his way as best he could. He continued to advance, but although the muscles of his thighs seemed to be of steel, he began to tire. Instinctively he inclined eastwards. Sharp stones had wounded his heels.

      He recognized nothing. He was crossing the plain of Portland from south to north. It is probable that the band with which he had come, to avoid meeting anyone, had crossed it from east to west. It was impossible for him to recognize the road.

      On the plain of Portland there are, here and there, raised strips of land. The wandering child reached one of these points and stopped on it. He tried to see around him. Before him, in place of a horizon, was a vast livid opacity.

      He saw some distance off a descent, and at the foot of the descent, among shapeless conformations of rock, blurred by the mist, what seemed to be either a sandbank. It was evident he must pass that way. He had, in fact, arrived at the Isthmus of Portland, a part which is called Chess Hill.

      He began to descend the side of the plateau. The descent was difficult and rough. He leapt from one rock to another at the risk of a sprain, at the risk of falling into the vague depths below. Little by little it was drawing nearer the moment when he could land on the Isthmus. The child felt now and then on his brow, on his eyes, on his cheeks, something which was like the palms of cold hands on his face. These were large frozen flakes. The child was covered with them.

      TROUBLED MEN ON THE TROUBLED SEA

      The snowstorm is one of the mysteries of the ocean. It is the most obscure of meteorological things – obscure in every sense of the word. It is a mixture of fog and storm; and even in our days we cannot well account for the phenomenon. Hence many disasters.

      One of the most dangerous components of the sea is the snowstorm. The pole produces it as it produces the СКАЧАТЬ